by Forish, E.
As I lose contact with the lunar luminous and its visual tricks, my focus drifts back to the duty of maintaining my state of inebriation. In a moment of blank contemplation, I absently finger the 30 mg. capsule of Adderall XR in my pocket before popping it into my mouth and, with a swig of beer, following it down my throat, for I fear the possibility of reconnecting with ordinary reality, and to relieve such fears I need to extend the excessively ecstatic effects of the psychedelic mindstate; I need to adorn my bejeweled imagination with gems as rare and as precious as the Hope Diamond; I need to validate the worth of my own existence and, consequently, need to test the mind and the body for signs of cerebral response through the decadent alterations of ordinary consciousness.
I concentrate all my energy in an attempt to regroup my scattered neurons into some semblance of order within the tangible universe, and as I struggle to grasp a brief moment of clarity, I consciously send commands to the body to remove specific supplies from my leather satchel, but instead I just empty its entire contents across the vinyl surface of the table. My hands shuffle through the expansive mass of objects and automatically separate the various writing materials from the other intermingled and mostly random itemssuper glue and band aids, pennies and credit cards, Bic lighters and more bottle caps, empty pill containers and stray Tylenol capsules before shoving the useless disarray back inside the depths of my purse.
A cluttered mess of provisions remains sprawled before me, and I feel overcome with the obsession to organize. I place one purple fine-point Sharpie and several black Pilot Precise V5 pens to the left. I then arrange the collection of nearly thirty index cards, all displaying their own unique list of various tasks or reminders, into an orderly pile and set the stack to the right before then repeating the process with a more modest accumulation of used sheets of notebook paper. I remove a particularly crinkled piece of paper from the top of the pile and smooth it against the table’s edge.
“Dear Allen
[lxx] ,” it begins.
“Ya know that weed I sold you yesterday? The weed supposedly laced with cocaine? Well, that crystalline coating on the buds simply reflected high-grade hydroponics. There was no coke.
“Although Glass
[lxxi] exists, I never actually traveled down to Connecticut to see him yesterday. Shit, I’ve never even scored chronic from him in the past. Not once; not yesterday, not today, not last week, not even five years ago. He dealt coke, straight up, and wouldn’t be caught dead hustlin’ weed. (Not enough profit.)
“So that weed that you smoked? That weed you were wary of because it was laced? It wasn‘t. There was no cocaine; there was no drug run down to Hartford; there was no truth in the words that I said. None. So I hope you enjoyed the psychosomatic effects of your ‘cocaine-covered’ herbage.
“Best Regards,
“A. Carroll.”
Just another confession detailing
the true accounts of past actions as opposed to the falsified versions I’ve been telling my friends. I crunch the note into a tight ball before discarding it onto the floor. Only a marble composition book remains set before me in the dead center of the table, staring back at me with a sardonic smirk, as though fully prepared and simultaneously amused to suffer through yet another recording of meaningless ramblings never meant to be viewed by the eyes of another. Despite its taunting aura, I grab the Pilot pen and begin to fervently write a confused confession to my one and only supposed savior in these chaotic moments of lapsed reality, just one more letter addressed to Blake to add to the growing collection of pages that’ll never make it beyond the tattered binding of my composition book.
“Spaceboy,
“Soon I’ll find myself alone because when a lover aches, you know she’ll never stay free. We get shown the light as heaven works out our complications. I’ll have to break to achieve salvation, but I don’t mind. I’ll sacrifice my sanity for anyone willing to gimme a chance.”
The ink slides smoothly across the lined paper, and, as if lost in a trance, my writing suddenly catapults into a feverish fury as I lose myself entirely in the fluid motion of the pen flying across the unwritten page.
“I starve, for what was once in love is now in debt, but don’t be sad. It isn’t you who plundered and ripped my heart out as I continue to ravage and murder the stability of my present reality.
“But if you wish to gain some trust from this deceitful heart, you’ll need to see my image formed dejected and realize that I was born broken. Maybe you can fix it, for if you look at me just right, then the exculpation will transcend your unforgiving feelings of my desecrated demise into a paradise of pleasures.
“After all, you chose me, and now that the day is done, chew up those memories and spit them out, but please don’t leave me here to pray for your forgiveness in the shadow of our stolen hearts. Take me as I am, for we are not criminals, just monsters pretending to be true friends.”
“What are you doing?” A stranger slides into the seat across from me. My eyes remain focused on the composition book as I continue to write.
“Hey —” he says brashly.
“Hold on. I’m busy,” I snap as I try to jot down the most immediate thought circulating through my blissed-out mind. “An insane person is guilty of anything” I begin, but my hand comes to a sudden stop. The sentiment becomes lost in the broken moment.
“Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something?” I say, annoyed by the interruption.
“I’m Cliff.”
“I don’t care.”
“Can I buy you a drink?”
“I got my own tab going, thanks.” I take several gulps of my #9 as I stare into the stranger’s deep brown eyes, but despite their depths, they hold no mystery. Clearly, an idiot smiles before me.
“What are you writing?”
“It’s none of your business.” I attempt to discourage the stranger’s interest in me through tactics of avoidance, diverting my eyes from his blank gaze by retreating into my work in opposition to validating his presence with conversation. As I reread several pages worth of writing, I trace over the particularly well-phrased sentences with the purple Sharpie.
“We are not criminals, just monsters pretending to be true friends.”
Unfortunately, the interruption causes my chemically-induced inspiration to recoil back into the enigmatic regions of my mind as my intuitive suspicions step forward to protect my deeply personal thoughts from this stranger. I slam my notebook shut and throw the Sharpie down onto the table.
“What’d’ya want?” I query.
“Just to talk.”
“What-fuckin’-ever. Talking’s fine, I guess, but nothing else.” I finish the remainder of my beer and continue. “You don’t interrupt people when they’re clearly in the middle of something.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, whatever.” An awkward silence settles between us, and, despite the knowledge that alcohol will decrease the visual aspects of the ‘shrooms, I yearn to increase the overall buzz circulating throughout my head; I yearn to disconnect. As I contemplate retreating towards the bartender to order another #9, I release a sigh of frustration and grumble, “You’re the one who wanted to talk. So talk.”
As he speaks I recede into my mind and reflect upon the philosophical nature of what it means “to be.” If existence precedes essence, then a human being, as well as human reality, exists prior to any preconceived notions of values or morals. If we are born as blank slates, absent of any a priori moral code in which to uphold, then as a species we possess the fundamental freedom to create our own system of beliefs, but it is through individual freedom of consciousness that the burden of responsibility for one’s choices creates opinionated conflict.
The lack of a universal, predetermined set of common principles or ethics presumes that as a unified whole mankind must form its own conception of existence by asserting control of and responsibility for personal choices and subsequent actions. We must exercise the power of unrestri
cted choice before essence can be obtained; we must first exist in order to be.
Despite the spacey expression that cloaks my face, my obvious disinterest in the conversation fails to dissuade Cliff from his drunken babble. Caught within the narrow universe produced by a mind suspended in psilocybin, I ignore the frequencies created by his vocal chords and, with the Sharpie clutched in my left hand, turn my attention back to the letter.
“The imagination of psychedelics generates a scenario that feels more real than reality itself. It is not the before or after, but the Now of reality in which both combine into one confounded Moment. Meet me there.”
As if possessed by the simultaneous gift and curse of speaking in tongues, Cliff persists to blather incoherent nonsense like a centuries-old tormented soul who seeks salvation by spewing forward opinionated drivel, devilish sentiments designed to remain permanently locked inside the purgatory of the average citizen’s alcohol-permeated mind yet accidentally slip outward, falling upon my disinterested cochleae.
I refuse even the slightest nod of the head to acknowledge his drunken viewpoints as I journal a series of detached thoughts that I perceive as both sacrosanct and hollow. I no longer address Blake, hoping that someday just one person will read and comprehend and possibly even empathize with the emotional disjuncture produced by the hallucinatory mindstate that poisons the ordinary abilities of the sensible thought process.
“Those who seek clear boundaries between the moralistic divisions of right and wrong will feel disappointment, for it is not an easy separation of the world into black and white. The three pillars of Self, Time, and Space do not possess imagination enough for a clean disconnection from Reality.
“Profound transfiguration denies behavior culturally sanctioned, yet artificial states seem inevitably to lead to the involvement of nurturing the soul of humanity. Experience corresponds to internal feelings”
“Are you even listening?” Cliff questions.
“Huh? Oh, I said talking was fine, remember? Nothing else. That includes listening.”
“You are quite the character.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“Yeah, but I know your type.”
“My type? You know ‘my type’? Fuck you.” I slide out of the booth and head towards the bar.
“Hey, get me a Red Stripe while you’re up there,” Cliff commands.
I turn over my shoulder and respond, “You must be confused. You’re the one who’s supposed to be buying me drinks.”
As I place my order with the bartender, I hope that Cliff will wander off to bother someone else in my absence, but when I return to the table with two #9s in hand, his presence still plagues my opportunity to achieve a moment of psychedelic serenity.
“I asked for a Red Stripe,” he comments.
“Oh, no. These are both for me.”
“Greedy li’l one, aren’t ya?”
“Excuse me? You don’t know me, and I don’t wanna know you. I can barely fuckin’ afford my own drinks. What makes you think that I’m gonna pay for yours, too?”
Cliff grunts with amusement, but refuses to be dissuaded by my irritable attitude. He continues to sit and talk, as though if he just waits long enough, I’ll suddenly come around and find interest in his words.
An hour passes, and by now six empty bottles of #9 litter the table’s surface. I reach my breaking point and begin to shove the clutter of supplies back into my leather satchel.
“What are you doing?” Cliff asks.
“Goin’ outside to smoke a cigarette,” I lie.
I hastily retreat from the table and approach the bartender to settle my tab before exiting the warmth of indoors. With no intention to return, I walk through the same cluster of smokers perched outside the doorway and light one of my own as I trek on foot towards Allen’s apartment, which I am currently house-sitting while he visits his family for Thanksgiving
[lxxii] . Before I even finish half of my cigarette, a rusty Chevy Blazer pulls up beside me.
“Wanna lift?”
I cannot see the figure through the darkness of the vehicle’s unlit interior, but I recognize the voice as belonging to Cliff.
“Why won’t you just fuckin’ leave me alone?”
“C’mon, don’t be stubborn. Where ya headed?”
I let out a sigh of defeat and mumble, “Clark Street.”
“Hop in.”
Cold and tired, I relinquish the barrier that I sometimes prefer to place between myself and others and accept the offer.
I climb into the passenger’s seat, and the weight of my boots crunches the pile of empty Budweiser cans that strewn the vehicle’s floor. We remain completely silent throughout the short journey; not even the radio plays. Within minutes, we turn onto Clark Street, and I point out Allen’s apartment. Cliff pulls over to the curb, and I bolt out of the Blazer without a word of thanks. As my feet hit the cement sidewalk, the sound of the engine dies behind me, and I hear Cliff slam his door shut and follow me to the doorway.
“I didn’t invite you in,” I say.
“But it would be rude of me not to walk you to the door.”
“Whatever, man.” I frantically search the seemingly endless depths of my purse for the key to the apartment, and, once retrieved, I absently place it inside the keyhole. As I hear the door click unlocked, I turn around to mutter a final goodbye to Cliff, but before I have the chance, his calloused hand engulfs mine as I grasp the doorknob. With a tight grip, he forces my wrist to twist the door open and then pushes me through the threshold, where I land hard on the wooden floor as he slams the door shut behind us.
“What the fuck, man?” I shout.
My brain misses the opportunity to fully process the situation before he covers my mouth with his large hands, smothering any other attempts on my part to scream. I bite down hard on his knuckles, and he loosens his grip for a second or two before spinning me around and slapping me in the face.
“You dumb bitch.” As he restrains my arms and pins me to the floor, I struggle to free myself from his grip, but it becomes obvious that I’ll never overcome the strength of this husky figure that restricts my body. I make a desperate attempt to kick him in the testicles, but, combined with the shock of the moment and the weight of his body, the ’shrooms and alcohol make it fully impossible to control the movement of my body.
“Think you can talk to me like that and get away with it? Like I’m just an annoyance? Some piece of shit who isn’t worth the time of day? Fuck you, bitch. That attitude of yours is gonna get you in trouble someday.”
He releases a maniacal laugh.
“You think that you can just walk all over anyone, don’t you? Anyone you want, even if you don’t know’em. Well, you fucked with the wrong person tonight, bitch. You fucked with the wrong person.”
I have no option; I have no control. My body is no longer my own, but my mind still possesses a hint of freedom. The drugs allow me to easily dissociate from the situation, to numb my flesh from his touch as I recede into a state of psychological dissociation, an attempt to make the whole night disappear forever, but the occurrence will burn permanent chasms into my memory like psychological black holes that forbid the possibility of escape.
“Where we headed?” Blake’s voice cuts through my thoughts, transporting me back to the present moment.
I stand in the center of Barnes and Noble, watching him hypnotically dangle the key to my Camry in front of my face.
“Oh, you’ll see.”
CHAPTER VIII: ON TAYLOR STREET
“You can dream a little dream, or you can live a little dream. I’d rather live it ‘cause dreamers always chase but never get it
[lxxiii] .”
WE ARRIVE IN DOWNTOWN SPRINGFIELD.
The city looms all around us. Nestled between City Hall and Symphony Hall, the clock tower penetrates the glistening field of cold stars in the distance. Skyscrapers reach towards the night sky, displaying glowing signs for the Sheraton and the Marriott
at their peaks. Neon lights of restaurants and taverns advertise Bud Light and Coors while flickering in the pale moonlight. People sit inside restaurants eating a variety of ethnic cuisine, from Lebanese to Polynesian to Mandarin. Others eat heaping plates of rigatoni and hearty lasagnas, while others still relax inside pubs with a frosty glass of beer and an all-American cheeseburger placed before them. Tricked-out sports cars, guided by lampposts still decorated with lighted snowflakes and bands of garland, dodge pedestrians while roaring down the crowded streets.
As the city lights dazzle my eyes, I think of how drastically the urban landscape compares to my rural hometown filled with cows, cornfields, and little else. As my thoughts wander, the scenario that took place in Granville thirty minutes earlier returns. I remember the look of surprise on my mother’s face when I walked through the front door.
“I didn’t think you even still had a house key,” she says.
I shrug.
“What brings you here?”
I try to concoct a reasonable lie in which to answer. As her gaze examines the hollowed casing of fragile flesh and dejected spirit before her, pausing for an extra second to examine my dilated pupils, I recall the story that I rehearsed a million times inside my head to the forefront of my memory.
I scored a freelance job in New York City for the weekend thanks for Blake. We’re headed down there this evening and will be back sometime on Monday. The company that hired us is paying for our accommodations, which Blake is currently in the process of coordinating, but before I can vocalize any of this, she asks, “Are you high?”